Math homework does not only have one correct answer
for example most quadratic equations have two answers.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
I Hate Math Homework
WHY AM I WRITING SO MUCH RIGHT NOW
IT'S INTERFERING WITH MY PRODUCTIVITY
ALSO IT MAKES CHRISTINE AND CAITLIN LOOK WAY MORE LAZY THAN THEY ARE
THEY ARE NOT LAZY THEY JUST DON'T HAVE ANYTHING DECENT TO WRITE ABOUT
UNLIKE ME
I WILL WRITE ABOUT ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING, INCLUDING MY SOCKS AND FERRETS
I DON'T HAVE FERRETS
I HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN ONE IN REAL LIFE EVER
*DROPS MIC*
*EATS BANANA VICIOUSLY*
*LEAVES*
*STICKS HEAD BACK IN*
CAITLIN YOU STILL AREN'T EXCUSED FROM NOT WRITING ANYTHING SINCE MARCH 17
~ ~ ~
Math homework is poo.
Math homework should be ripped up and left to die in the ditches.
(especially if there are more than 32 problems)
(32 = 2^5)
Math homework should not be taken in large quantities.
(especially word problems)
(that’s a different topic altogether and could make this poem 10 times longer)
Math homework is as appealing as a sock I have worn for seventy-five days straight.
(which i have not)
Math homework is easily misinterpreted.
Math homework is easy to copy down wrong.
Math homework is tedious.
Math homework only has one right answer.
Math homework should be boycotted.
Math homework is suffering, death, and all things deemed unhealthy for children by human beings.
(but they keep feeding it to us - pg 136 # 1 - 2, 11 - 17, 23 - 28, 33 - 34, 37 - 42,...)
Friday, September 25, 2015
The Evil Unicorn
Seriously, I swear I'm the only one who still writes legit stuff for this blog anymore. Though this wasn't specifically written for Calletrix. I'm a hypocrite. Oops.
~ ~ ~
He was a silver-bright unicorn, and he liked killing:a) rabbits,
b) goats, and
c) other unicorns.
Obviously, not many unicorns liked him.
One day, he trotted into a purple-green clearing intoxicated by the smell of bloody strawberries, and he saw another silver unicorn trip-tropping across the other side. He neighed and said, "WHY ARE YOU IN THIS CLEARING?"
The other unicorn said, "I WANT TO EAT YOU" and charged.
The first unicorn, still smelling bloody strawberries in a distant corner of his brain, charged back, delighted at the prospect of finding another unicorn with the same thought process. This happiness only lasted for a moment, as the second unicorn had poked his horn in the other's eye almost automatically, and the first unicorn died with a happy, stupid smile on his face, thinking about the happiness they could've had together and the bloody strawberries that he had not yet finished.
The second unicorn sniffed the corpse. She moved her nose slowly down his spine and counted the strands of his tail. She stood, abruptly, and left it to the flies, and the purple-green clearing was red with blood.
It was only until the next morning that a blessing of unicorns found the dead corpse. They ignored it, and the flies had finished it by the next day.
(Unicorn flesh is soft enough to be eaten by flies.)
And if anyone remembered it after that, well, no one ever said so.
The other unicorn said, "I WANT TO EAT YOU" and charged.
The first unicorn, still smelling bloody strawberries in a distant corner of his brain, charged back, delighted at the prospect of finding another unicorn with the same thought process. This happiness only lasted for a moment, as the second unicorn had poked his horn in the other's eye almost automatically, and the first unicorn died with a happy, stupid smile on his face, thinking about the happiness they could've had together and the bloody strawberries that he had not yet finished.
The second unicorn sniffed the corpse. She moved her nose slowly down his spine and counted the strands of his tail. She stood, abruptly, and left it to the flies, and the purple-green clearing was red with blood.
It was only until the next morning that a blessing of unicorns found the dead corpse. They ignored it, and the flies had finished it by the next day.
(Unicorn flesh is soft enough to be eaten by flies.)
And if anyone remembered it after that, well, no one ever said so.
Friday, September 11, 2015
The Butter Truck
“Who’s driving that huge truck of butter and where's it going?”
The sun scorched the sky, an open flame disintegrating the moths that flew too close. That day, everything was too close. The Golden Gate Bridge shimmered a pale, hot orange in the heat.
Sweat darkened a diamond on her back as she watched the truck rumble downhill. The giant stick of butter glistened with oil, the wax wrapper shone, even the black tablespoon labels.
“I don’t know. Have another cookie.” The boy held out the bag of chocolate-chip cookies.
“But there’s a butter truck!” She looked at the road, where the giant stick of butter had left perfectly round yellow drops melted in its tracks.
“Ssh.” He put a finger to his lips and offered the cookies again.
“But-”
“Ssh. Have a cookie.”
“But-” She took a cookie. “But it’s there.”
“I know. That don’t mean we talk about it.” He waved a hand up the hill. “They don’t see it, the big guys.”
She swallowed the cookie. It tasted like wood chips, like any other school lunch. “Why not?”
“They ain’t interested in butter trucks, nuh-uh. They want money and power.” He looked up at the nonexistent clouds. “If you ask me, that’s stupid. That’s boring. Butter trucks? They gotta love butter trucks.”
She shielded her eyes, trying to see further, to catch a glimpse of the driver. But it was too far away, and the air rippled in the heat, and she couldn’t see. The butter puddles sizzled on the pavement, the scent of laughter at a long forgotten party. She shouldered her backpack, wiping off her forehead.
He stood in a puddle of the stuff, sneakers yellowed with melting butter. He didn’t look down.
“They don’t see it,” he said. “No one pays it any mind. Least of all us.”
“Where’s it going, then, if no one pays attention?” She glanced at the dirty shoes as he continued walking.
“I don’t know.” But then he looked at her, eyes wide and clear and empty as the sky, and afraid. “But don’t follow the butter truck.”
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Take Charge
This is old poetry.
Take charge
The madmen have been slayed
your heart has been betrayed
but step up to the glorious game
where you can once again claim your name
The secrets haven’t been told
but for ruthless lies it could be sold
This was rightfully mine
but it can be yours for only nine
Hold your future in your hand
heartbreak is a lonely land
it’s a place where you decide to stay
change your life like child’s play
Determination, courage and strength
these will be tested to their length
we’ll hold your insights, dear
don’t be drawn in by malicious fear
One day you can stand strong
don’t be afraid to be wrong
the worst crime isn’t a mistake
it’s that your strength is seemingly fake
Take a step, even the wrong way
you’ll be back on course in a day
you need to make a move
and courage you will prove
A desert thirsts for eternity
but it’s a place of opportunity
there’s a chance to take charge
and here you are.
One step forward
is mountains of change
take charge altogether
no matter what kind of weather.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Svanalf's Norse B&B, Part One
The guests had become increasingly more eccentric at Svanalf’s B&B, formerly the hotel of gods, Scandinavian division.
Svanalf herself was still the receptionist, but she was also the host, CEO, empress of her kingdom, librarian, and janitor. She didn’t like being the janitor.
She inspected her fingernails as the door swung open. The scarlet nail polish was chipped. Bummer.
“Hello,” said the chap stepping jauntily into the hall over the sound of the storm outside. “Got any vacancies?”
He was a redhead wearing pale pink legwarmers and gloves, and he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, including everyone in the mob of Lokis she’d once hosted. Like fire.
Definitely a Loki, then. No doubt about it.
“One-Eye,” he said mildly to the one-eyed man beside him, “I do think Ms.-” He glanced at Svanalf’s name tag. “-Svanalf doesn’t want our company.”
“Oh!” Svanalf said. “So sorry. What’s the matter?”
“Lodgings, one night,” the man called One-Eye said.
“Mmm- Where’re you going? Six hundred krone.”
“World’s End,” One-Eye said.
“Lovely place, I hope? Nice for a vacation?”
One-Eye shrugged. He counted out a sheaf of Norwegian krone and pushed the money over the counter. Svanalf took it, slipping into the cashier.
“Well,” said the Loki, rubbing his hands together, “nice talk. See ya later.”
“No room?” Svanalf called, passing One-Eye a room card. “One-o-one,” she said more quietly to the Odin. He nodded and swept past, disappearing down the hallway.
“Nah,” the Loki said. “I’m out there.” He gestured out the window. “Berk. That’s where I’m headed. Someone just invoked my leg-warmer-ness.”
“Ah,” said Svanalf, not getting it.
“Business bad?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Some interesting people should be coming your way shortly,” he promised. And then he left into the night.
Svanalf herself was still the receptionist, but she was also the host, CEO, empress of her kingdom, librarian, and janitor. She didn’t like being the janitor.
She inspected her fingernails as the door swung open. The scarlet nail polish was chipped. Bummer.
“Hello,” said the chap stepping jauntily into the hall over the sound of the storm outside. “Got any vacancies?”
He was a redhead wearing pale pink legwarmers and gloves, and he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, including everyone in the mob of Lokis she’d once hosted. Like fire.
Definitely a Loki, then. No doubt about it.
“One-Eye,” he said mildly to the one-eyed man beside him, “I do think Ms.-” He glanced at Svanalf’s name tag. “-Svanalf doesn’t want our company.”
“Oh!” Svanalf said. “So sorry. What’s the matter?”
“Lodgings, one night,” the man called One-Eye said.
“Mmm- Where’re you going? Six hundred krone.”
“World’s End,” One-Eye said.
“Lovely place, I hope? Nice for a vacation?”
One-Eye shrugged. He counted out a sheaf of Norwegian krone and pushed the money over the counter. Svanalf took it, slipping into the cashier.
“Well,” said the Loki, rubbing his hands together, “nice talk. See ya later.”
“No room?” Svanalf called, passing One-Eye a room card. “One-o-one,” she said more quietly to the Odin. He nodded and swept past, disappearing down the hallway.
“Nah,” the Loki said. “I’m out there.” He gestured out the window. “Berk. That’s where I’m headed. Someone just invoked my leg-warmer-ness.”
“Ah,” said Svanalf, not getting it.
“Business bad?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Some interesting people should be coming your way shortly,” he promised. And then he left into the night.
~ ~ ~
One-Eye: Odin, Runemarks (Joanne Harris)
Loki: Loki, How to Train Your Dragon (Cressida Cowell)
"By Loki's little lunatic leg-warmers"
~ ~ ~
The rest of this story is still pending since I have yet to read the whole of Sandman and therefore do not know exactly what Gaiman did with Norse mythology. Coming shortly... just like Svanalf's interesting people.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Poetry!
I'm dying.
Therefore, I will post all the poetry I have.
The Butterfly Rondel, Which I Decided To Draw/Calligraph:
The Star Rondel:
The stars are tumbling through the sky
Like precious gemstones twinkling bright.
I catch them when they leave the heights
And let them go, and let them fly.
Dust whispers up, a silent sigh,
The stardust floating, brilliant light.
The stars are tumbling through the sky
Like precious gemstones twinkling bright.
Of stardust I am made, aren’t I?
The starlight takes me home tonight.
I raise my hand; my time is tight.
The night sky says there’s no good-bye.
The stars are tumbling through the sky.
The Werewolf Sestina:
The werewolf is killed with silver
and split open and skinned in the night.
The hunter looks up from the dark, afraid, alone,
and slings his rifle across his back with unease.
He takes the fur and wipes crimson blood
on the moss in the shadows.
The branches wave softly in the shadows.
The hunter leaves the corpse felled with silver.
Seeping slowly from the dark flesh is blood,
dripping silent from slack-open jaws in the night,
and though it is fresh, it lies alone.
No life dares approach without unease.
The hunter returns to village, gone is unease,
and spreads out the fur in the morning shadows.
He sets up his stall, waiting alone
for someone to buy fur gotten with silver -
The corpse lies forgotten in everlasting night -
the fur is stained with blood.
The hunter looks up from the dark, afraid, alone,
and slings his rifle across his back with unease.
He takes the fur and wipes crimson blood
on the moss in the shadows.
The branches wave softly in the shadows.
The hunter leaves the corpse felled with silver.
Seeping slowly from the dark flesh is blood,
dripping silent from slack-open jaws in the night,
and though it is fresh, it lies alone.
No life dares approach without unease.
The hunter returns to village, gone is unease,
and spreads out the fur in the morning shadows.
He sets up his stall, waiting alone
for someone to buy fur gotten with silver -
The corpse lies forgotten in everlasting night -
the fur is stained with blood.
The market opens in light like blood,
and the hunter is once more visited by unease,
remembering what happened in the night.
No one comes, the sellers wait in shadows
that cover stalls and turn them silver.
The hunter waits and is alone.
A stranger walks in, finally, alone.
The hunter sees fingernails crusted with blood
and eyes like daggers, piercing silver.
Soft murmurs, heavy with unease,
hang in the dust. The hunter sits in shadows,
and the wolf turns, silent as night.
He reaches out, and the hunter sees night.
Stalking the werewolf in woods, alone,
the trigger clicks and he falls through shadows
of roots and tree branches and blood.
Others watch the bodies, frozen with unease.
The man touches fur shining suddenly silver.
In shadows he remembers payment in blood -
dark night he alone yanked from hunter,
leaving unease asunder - and hides from silver.
When summer comes the world is baking hotand the hunter is once more visited by unease,
remembering what happened in the night.
No one comes, the sellers wait in shadows
that cover stalls and turn them silver.
The hunter waits and is alone.
A stranger walks in, finally, alone.
The hunter sees fingernails crusted with blood
and eyes like daggers, piercing silver.
Soft murmurs, heavy with unease,
hang in the dust. The hunter sits in shadows,
and the wolf turns, silent as night.
He reaches out, and the hunter sees night.
Stalking the werewolf in woods, alone,
the trigger clicks and he falls through shadows
of roots and tree branches and blood.
Others watch the bodies, frozen with unease.
The man touches fur shining suddenly silver.
In shadows he remembers payment in blood -
dark night he alone yanked from hunter,
leaving unease asunder - and hides from silver.
The Sonnet I Used in a Bit Of Writing and Then Took Out, Because I Didn't Like It:
Advancing winter gives the world to ice
In spring bananas grow and make brains rot
And fall? The name itself can quite suffice.
But seasons pass and still do seasons go
And slowly is the road of time's flight paved
Now I would rather blindly choose my path
Than give myself to death - I'd not be saved
Come etch for me a story out of peace,
Come etch for me a story out of blood
And in the dark may some short stories cease
But many others from the dark will flood
This tale of peace and blood that in dark ends
In spring bananas grow and make brains rot
And fall? The name itself can quite suffice.
But seasons pass and still do seasons go
And slowly is the road of time's flight paved
Now I would rather blindly choose my path
Than give myself to death - I'd not be saved
Come etch for me a story out of peace,
Come etch for me a story out of blood
And in the dark may some short stories cease
But many others from the dark will flood
This tale of peace and blood that in dark ends
Begins one - me without, but with my friends.
Sometimes I lie awake in bed and think
Of hope and dreams that frolick here unseen
Of monsters, demons, ghosts that in dark slink
Of magic, treasure, strange things in between
Of happiness - from what is the stuff made?
On this, I’ve thought about a recipe:
From memories do two cups childhood raid,
And quickly whisk with wonder, teaspoons three;
A dash of satisfaction with things done,
A pinch of honor with two hope drops laced.
Child’s love, a bit, for smiles and all things fun,
Now mix them well and season to your taste
So follow these instructions, more or less,
For I think this is what brings happiness.
The sonnet is a poem that conquers all
And reverence I heap upon this form
With fourteen lines in rhyme and meter's thrall
The beauties of it rise above the norm
Yet this poem's subjects always seem so grim
About the dark and shadows, peace and love
My love for sonnets teeters on the rim
And crashes after falling from above
But hark! Complaining mine is at an end
For pickles in a sonnet sound just right
The marinated stuff a hand can lend
And help me when the grim and silly fight
Thus pickles salty are my only hope
Of them I write, and maybe I can cope.
The Pineapple Sonnet, Because I Feel Like Writing a Sonnet On The Spot:
There are some things that I will truly love
So long as I can breathe and this world stays
But some things aggravate like turtle doves
And lots of countries, people, chickens raze.
But somewhere in between lies yellow fruit:
A yellow fruit that salty is indeed:
This pineapple that should be put in boots
On which to step and think about thy deeds
But pineapples do taste like sug'ry sweets
And they have vitamins and manganese
And thankfully they do not taste like beets
Or stink like ancient, disregarded cheese.
These pineapples are, all considered, cool
So get in line and please, try not to drool.
Okay, that was utterly horrible.
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